As soon as Mulan returned home, he went straight to his room, took out pen and ink, and spread some paper across his desk. Then he began writing rapidly, before he forgot what Walton had told him.
While Mulan wrote and thought, the dolls he had placed on the desk kept wriggling about. Their legs seemed rather soft, making standing and walking difficult, so most of them crawled. Only one or two managed a few cautious steps.
Whenever a doll reached the edge of the desk, Mulan reached out and dragged them back to the center, writing as he watched them continue their "games."
Of course, the one with the severed arm was noticeably less lively. Most of the time, he lay motionless, clutching his detached arm. Mulan poked him twice, and only after he stirred did Mulan confirm that the little fellow was still alive.
"He said someone would come looking for me, but who? And how long will it take?"
Never mind when they come. Getting things done comes first. I need to take the big shot's first assignment seriously.
Mulan abandoned any thought of resting. He stripped off his inner layer and coat, found his most presentable shirt and waistcoat in the wardrobe, and, after some deliberation, decided on the dark overcoat he had brought back from the army. It was his best-quality and most respectable coat. He added a formal hat in a similar color.
Mulan tidied his hair and checked himself in the wardrobe mirror. The mixed ensemble suited him surprisingly well and made him look sharp. It might not have been as refined as a typical gentleman's attire, but it gave him a more striking, gallant air.
He straightened his collar, turned back to grab the dolls that had already crawled to the edge of the desk, and tossed them all into a cloth bag. Then he tied it shut and tucked it against his chest. Who knew what other strange tricks these fellows might have? Better to keep them with him.
When he opened his bedroom door, the aroma of food drifted up from downstairs. Old Buck had gone shopping earlier that day while the wind and rain were easing, so lunch included both meat and soup.
Mulan had no intention of resting at home. After lunch, he announced that he was leaving and headed straight out.
Perhaps because of the storm, winter had arrived unusually early in Valentine that year. November was as cold as December had been in previous years.
The sky had not cleared after lunch, but the drizzle outside had stopped. Mulan lowered his hat brim slightly to block some of the cold wind blowing into his face. His breath turned white in the air, as though the temperature had fallen further in the space of a single morning.
His confrontation with the serial killer had driven home the importance of physical fitness. Since retiring from the army, however, he had neglected his training. Even this little bit of cold wind had made him shiver as he stepped outside.
Mulan silently resolved to train harder, starting right now. His destination was some distance away, but there was no need to hire a carriage. He would jog there and treat it as a warm-up for his exercise regimen.
Thanks to the port city's overall design, the floodwater had gradually begun receding soon after the rain stopped. Any water left in the city was shallow by now, though the rubbish washed everywhere had left some of Valentine's streets looking filthy and chaotic.
Mulan jogged along, regulating his breathing and trying to keep himself warm without working up too much of a sweat.
Along the way, he took in the city's current state. Most of the people riding in passing carriages were finely dressed gentlemen and ladies. Some scrawny children accompanied a handful of adults, carrying push scrapers and shovels as they cleared flood silt and rubbish from certain streets. In the open markets, crowds squeezed together to buy-or rather, scramble for-cheap vegetables...
With his long legs, Mulan maintained a brisk pace even at a jog. A little over twenty minutes later, he reached the Laurel District, where many of Valentine's wealthy residents lived, and stopped outside a detached three-story mansion with its own courtyard.
"Huff, huff..."
Breathing out a few white clouds, Mulan took a moment to steady his breath. Visiting the residence of a genuinely wealthy, high-status noble was still unfamiliar to him, and he even felt a tiny flicker of nerves. It was easy enough to overcome, though. By the time his breathing settled, so had his state of mind.
There was a doorbell on the gate. Naturally, it was not electric, but a bell hanging from the iron bars with a short cord dangling beneath it.
Mulan reached out and tugged the cord several times, making the bell clang.
Before long, a maid hurried out of the mansion and crossed the courtyard to the gate. Through the bars, she saw a tall man standing straight outside.
"Sir, may I ask what brings you here?"
Mulan gave her a polite smile.
"Please inform Miss Hémile that Mr. Wolfe has been detained by other matters and cannot keep his appointment..."
After a moment's hesitation, Mulan braced himself and forced out the rest.
"Mr. Wolfe asked me to tell Miss Hémile that her beauty shines like the stars, her smile blooms as lovely as a flower, and he will never forget this pearl of Valentine..."
Mulan's toes curled against the soles of his shoes as he spoke. The long string of excuses dressed up in even more honeyed words was so excruciatingly embarrassing that he wished he could dig out a mansion just like the one in front of him with his toes. At least then the Jonester Household would never have to pay rent again.
"Whew... That is all. Please pass it on to Miss Hémile!"
Mulan let out a long breath. At last, it was over. But just as he was about to turn away, the maid hurriedly stopped him.
"Please wait, sir!"
"Hmm? Is there something else?"
The maid looked as though she had only just emerged from a trance. Deeply embarrassed, she addressed Mulan.
"Sir, I can't remember all of that... Please wait here while I inform my mistress. I hope you could repeat it to her in person in a moment. I'm terribly sorry!"
"Uh, that's all right."
As he watched the maid hurry back, the smile vanished from Mulan's face. Seriously? I have to say it all again?
Mulan took a folded sheet of white paper covered in writing from his coat pocket, opened it, and glanced over it. It contained all sorts of romantic declarations, each passage paired with a name and address.
Yes, by Mulan's standards, the mighty Sir Walton was an out-and-out womanizing scumbag.
The maid soon returned and opened the gate, inviting Mulan inside. There was nothing for it. Having accepted the task, he had to see it through. Mulan was a man who kept his promises, and besides, the person he had promised was not someone he could afford to offend.
He followed the maid through the large house and soon arrived at a cozy little sitting room. As he entered, he immediately felt the temperature rise considerably.
Two young women in exquisite dresses sat on a sofa beside the stove. He had no idea which was Miss Hémile.
"Where has Mr. Wolfe gone? When will he be back? What did he ask you to tell me?"
One of the young ladies rose and began questioning him the moment he entered, making it clear which one he had come to see. Mulan drew a small breath and repeated the romantic speech he found so cloying and embarrassing. For the first time, he felt that a good memory could be a curse.
After hearing the declarations, the young lady looked dejected. She sank into her seat in a daze, then raised her head to look at Mulan again.
"He's so kind. Even with so little time, he still remembered to send you to tell me all this..."
Mulan froze for a moment. Are you kidding me? You still think that scumbag is kind?
"Are you Mr. Mulan Jonester?"
While Miss Hémile sat in despondency, the other young woman, who had been studying Mulan for some time, suddenly exclaimed.
"Mulan Jonester? The retired second lieutenant who dueled the serial killer?"
Miss Hémile looked astonished as well and examined her visitor closely. His hat brim was pulled slightly low, with faintly curled hair showing at his temples. His features were sharply defined and his eyes bright, almost exactly like the photograph in the newspaper.
Mr. Jonester is even more handsome than his photograph! So Mr. Wolfe sent Mr. Jonester to deliver his message. Mr. Wolfe must have just as strong a sense of justice as Mr. Jonester...
Mulan made no attempt to conceal his identity and nodded.
"Yes, miss, I'm Mulan. Now that I've delivered the message, I have other business to attend to, so I won't stay any longer. Good day."
"Wait!"
The young lady who had recognized Mulan first immediately stood. She looked a little nervous, but still hurried over to him.
"Mr. Jonester, I'm holding a ball this weekend at Manor No. 6 in the Laurel District. I... I'd like to invite you. Would you come?"
A ball?
"Uh, I'm sorry, but I can't dance."
"That doesn't matter. Actually, I can't dance either. Lots of people can't!"
Her eyes were full of anticipation. Mulan had intended to refuse again, but then he remembered what sort of place Manor No. 6 was and guessed what this ball represented. The former Mulan had been so obsessed with restoring the Jonester Household's fortunes that even the present Mulan could still feel that fixation deeply.
Perhaps getting to know a few more prominent people wouldn't be a bad thing...
"All right. I can come and broaden my horizons. I hope I won't make a fool of myself."
Clap!
The young woman clapped her hands in delight.
"Wonderful! I'll send someone to deliver your invitation. Where do you live, Mr. Jonester?"
Mulan had no choice but to give her his address. Then he said goodbye once more and hurried away.
Once Mulan had left, the young woman in the warm sitting room was so happy she nearly jumped for joy.
"This is wonderful! I met Mr. Mulan Jonester in person! He's even more handsome than his photograph. Hémile, I invited him, and he said yes!"
"Mm, yes..."
Hémile seemed rather unenthusiastic. She was still upset over Mr. Wolfe leaving without saying goodbye.